Final Storm by Mack Maloney Page B

microphone. “Flight Six? What is your situation?”
    There was no reply …
    “Flight Six,” he called out. “Confirm in-flight emergency …”
    Once again, there was only silence.
    Even as Spaulding attempted to reach the pilot of the stricken airliner once again, a dozen things raced through his mind. Did the 747 have an engine problem? A fuel problem? Was it electrical? All unlikely—the pilot hadn’t reported anything and with mechanical failures, there usually was a warning sign—an oil pressure gauge, an engine temperature light, or any one of the hundreds of feedback and monitoring systems that checked the plane’s vital signs would generally give some sort of advance notice before trouble started.
    “Flight Six, Flight Six …” Spaulding called out. “ What is your situation? ”
    There was no answer. Only static.
    He watched in horror as the 747 was almost immediately engulfed in flames. Then it turned over, spiraled for the long plunge down.
    The spike of fear finally stabbed him. Maybe they’d been hit by enemy fire.
    As the A-10A had no long-range radar to speak of, he quickly scanned the area visually, checking his position at the same time. They were at 40,000 feet and still had more than 1000 miles to go to the mainland of Europe. Where would enemy fighters come from? Unless …
    Suddenly his radio crackled to life.
    “Thunderbolt Leader! This is 747 Flight One!” he heard the desperate, electronically distorted voice say. “We are under attack! Repeat … we are under air attack !”
    Spaulding quickly calculated that Flight One was five miles ahead of his present position and a mile and a half below.
    “Roger, Flight One,” he replied. “We’re on our way …”
    Spaulding immediately radioed up the rest of his ’Bolts and as one they dove to catch up with the airliners.
    They reached the scene just as Flight One was going down. But he could see no enemy fighters—not right away, at least.
    “Where are the bastards!” he cried into his microphone.
    No sooner had he said it when one of his pilots called back.
    “Captain! This is Murphy! I can see them …” came the message. “Six miles out due north. There’s eight—no, nine of them. I can see them clear as day …”
    Spaulding immediately put his Thunderbolt into a wide, arcing 180-degree turn, a maneuver the rest of his flight followed. Within seconds he was able to see a handful of aircraft riding almost parallel to the flight of airliners.
    “They’re Soviet jump-jets …” Spaulding called out to his flight, surprised that his voice was so calm. He had immediately recognized the uniquely ugly profile of the Yak-38 Forger, a fighter flown by the Soviet Navy.
    He knew more than a few things about the Yak. One, it was equipped with AA-2 Atoll air-to-air missiles, with a range of about six miles. Two, the Yak, was a Vertical Take-off and Landing type jet, and therefore operated almost exclusively from the deck of certain Soviet ships.
    In other words, there was a Soviet carrier down there, somewhere.
    Spaulding knew he had to act fast. There was no doubt that when the Soviet fighters had finished shooting at the convoy with their standoff missiles, they’d probably swoop in at close range to finish the job with their guns. If that happened, the ungainly A-10s would have no chance at all to save the transports, or even themselves.
    So the ’Bolts would have to dive—now, straight through the formation of enemy fighters from head-on and above. And then, well—then he’d worry about what to do next.
    It only took seconds for Spaulding to first broadcast a coded “Under Attack-Distress” message to the rest of the convoy. Then he armed his Gatling and signaled his flight to do the same. The Standard ARMs and Rockeyes hanging from their wings would be useless against the airborne targets. Spaulding thought ruefully that the heavy ordnance might be good for extra weight during the first dive, but then the bombs would only